


Bass Line

by janescott



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M, RPF, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-25
Updated: 2010-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janescott/pseuds/janescott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Based very loosely on this prompt: Tommy/Adam/Kris - Adam's always had a thing for Kris, but never really did anything about it (despite rumors). Tommy turns out to be extremely observant/intuitive and notices, and goes on to tease Adam about it. Adam takes out his sexual frustration on Tommy, with Tommy just as rough. Lots of banter please. Thanks to 3whiteroses, cynnet, call_me_loca and magenta for getting this to where it is: finished. <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bass Line

Tommy gives the illusion of constant movement, but he's really a still kind of person. He watches from the sidelines a lot of the time, and it's kind of a perfect analogy for being a bass player. You're not always out in front like the lead singer or lead guitar player, but you're still necessary to the action, to the rhythm and the beat. And you get your moments to shine too – what's the good of melody without a good rhythm to back it up?

And when he hears music, any kind of music, he has to tap along with the beat – finding the bass line and following it down.

He watches the rehearsal for Adam's music video, sitting on a battered old couch in a corner of the fucked-up set at the Alexandria, unconsciously tapping out the rhythm of For Your Entertainment when it blasts through the speakers while the director and the choreographer go over some obscure point with the dancers. He scans the room, mentally cataloguing the people he knows, realising that there are more than he thought.

Most weren't friends, exactly, but familiar faces from clubs, and audiences. They'd all go to each other's gigs – starving artists supporting starving artists, a friend of Tommy's had put it once after his old band had played to a near-empty audience and they were all people they knew. He likes Adam for that. For the way he reached out to old friends and connections to be in the video, even to form the band.

Not so starving now, he reminds himself as Adam collapses on the couch beside him, propping his ridiculous pimp cane against the arm. And it's stupid, maybe, Tommy thinks absently as his fingers tap out the chorus of the song on his leg, but he can't help being _relieved_.

The struggle might be character-building, or whatever other bullshit they all tell themselves as they weigh up the decision to eat or to pay their rent, but having a regular gig doing something you love is so much better.

Tommy stills his fingers when he realises Adam's watching his hand. "Sorry," he says, as the director calls a break. He's a little surprised that they're not immediately swamped by people, but Adam just vaguely waves at Monte and Lisa, heading outside for a breather, and everyone else sort of mills around, glancing over at them occasionally, but not coming over.

"That's alright," Adam says, amused. "It took me a minute to catch on to what you were doing."

"Nervous habit," Tommy says, although he's not nervous at all. "I don't even notice it any more."

Adam smiles and slouches down on the cushions, and Tommy wonders how he's not uncomfortable and too hot in that fucking jacket, but he's not even sweating which isn't – his thought processes are derailed when he hears the buzz of Adam's phone

Tommy watches as Adam pulls it out of his pocket, watching his face as he sees who's name's on the display, and Tommy's not above a spot of reading over people's shoulders so ... "Still?" he says, before he can stop himself, because Adam's face has softened into the kind of look usually reserved for couples mooning at each other in restaurants.

Adam just pulls a face as he taps out a quick message, saying, "I don't know what you're talking about," in that don't-fuck-with-me tone that Tommy just ignores.

Adam's been mooning over Kris Allen for months, Tommy knows. Fucking _everybody_ knows, and there have been whole nights – drunken war councils - devoted to how to get Adam unstuck from possibly the most unavailable guy on the planet: straight, married and, as far as Tommy knows, ridiculously in love with his tiny, perfect wife.

"Shall I bring you up to date then?" Tommy asks, tapping on his leg again, even though there's no music playing. "About how you're still – what's the word I want – pining for your oh-so-cute Idol room-mate. Your straight and married former room-mate. How you broke up with Drake, because he couldn't handle coming second to an _idea._ How am I doing so far?"

"I could replace you, you know. There are other bass players. Ones who listen when someone who is in deep denial tells them they don't know what they're talking about." Adam trains his eyes on Tommy then, his gaze steady and blazing bright blue in the dim light of the hotel. Tommy finds he's tapping out the opening bars of Fever, and doesn't know whether that's intentional or not as Adam's eyes are still on him.

Tommy's not intimidated by Adam. Well. Not much, anyway. He's seen too many of Adam's club exploits – watching from the sidelines, or from his own group of friends – to be really scared of him.

"You won't replace me. One: I'm a fucking good bass player. Two: I'm a _fucking_ good bass player," and this makes Adam laugh, his face loosening and lightening up.

"Is there a three?" Adam asks, clearly enjoying himself now.

"Nope. Just the first two. Like the first two rules of Fight Club. You don't _need_ a third reason to keep me around," Tommy says as the director calls for everyone, places please, because they've finally worked out whatever kink it was with the dancers. And it's a little mean, and a little bitchy to tease Adam like this, because it is a little bit like poking a hibernating bear, but Tommy's never been very good at playing it safe, or colouring inside the lines.

Adam watches as Tommy swings up off the couch, stepping over Adam's long legs, picking up the pimp cane, balancing it in his hand for a minute.

"It's just – it's rough sometimes, that's all," Adam says quietly, his mood tipping back towards dark as quickly as it had lightened a moment ago.

Deliberately, Tommy twirls the cane once, expertly before handing it back to Adam, ridiculous, shiny gold head first, grinning at the look on Adam's face, which is somewhere between surprise and ... huh ... lust. Well, well, well, Tommy thinks. If that's all it takes to get Adam's mind off his little married crush ... "Well, Adam," Tommy says, his tone teasing, and bordering on flirty, which surprises him a little bit, because while he flirts, of course he does, he never expected to be flirting with Adam. Going _there_ with the lead singer of your band is a bad idea. Bad, bad idea. But. What the fuck.

"Like the lady says ... if it isn't rough, it isn't fun."

Without looking back, Tommy turns on his heel and goes to find his mark for the video again, sparing Adam one glance from under his lashes as he settles his bass over his shoulders and waits for the director to call action. Adam's staring at Tommy like he's never seen him before, and Tommy can't help grinning at that, as they get to work again.

Adam drives Tommy – and everyone – nuts over the next few days. Tommy starts calling it the Art Show Incident in his head as Adam goes back and forth – and back and forth over whether he should go to Drake's art show, since the break-up was so recent.

For Tommy, the answer's easy: "Go," he says to Adam as the band kicks back at Adam's house a couple of days after the video shoot. Adam looks at Tommy like he's just grown an extra head.

"Oh, now you have an opinion? I've been talking about this for _days_ and now you weigh in? What's your reasoning?" Adam asks, leaning forward on the couch, his expression intent, going into what Tommy calls his asshole mode. It's not Adam's natural state, but he can play asshole with the best of them when he puts his mind to it.

Suddenly LP hauls his tall frame out of the chair he's been sitting in, staring at the ceiling for the past hour, saying, "Cut him some slack, Adam. You asked, he's answering. You said it yourself: it ain't that deep. I'm out. I'll see you all later."

That seems to be some kind of signal, and before Tommy can process it, it's just him and Adam, and Adam's still staring at him like Tommy's got some kind of answer Adam's never heard before.

Adam props his chin on his hand and rests his elbow on the arm of the couch, not taking his eyes off Tommy. "So? Why do you think I should go?"

Tommy just stares at Adam for a moment, who is still focused on him like Tommy's suddenly the only person in the world. He's seen it disconcert interviewers, and fans before: the way Adam has of just ... honing in on whoever he's talking to. And Tommy's never had that kind of focus turned on him before, and while he's impressed by it, and a little envious, because he can't focus like that for shit, he's not intimidated and meets Adam's eyes easily.

"Because-" he gets out before Adam's phone rings, and Tommy knows who it is before Adam answers it, and gets that dopey look on his face again. He glances at Tommy, and sees something in his face because after he answers the phone he heads into the kitchen.

Stay or go, Tommy thinks, absently tapping out the rhythm to the Clash song on the arm of the chair, the leather sliding under his fingertips.

Stay, he thinks first – that's his first instinct. He _wants_ to stay. He kind of wants to know what happens when he does poke the bear in his cave.

Go, he thinks second as his fingers tap out _should I stay or should I go now ..._ because he really, really doesn't want to get in the middle of Adam's bullshit unrequited love story.

Stay, he thinks again, his thoughts circling around to the day of the video shoot, when everyone was looking at him like they expected him to do something – snap Adam out of it somehow, get him to move on. Which. Not that easy.

Tommy's not stupid. He knows Adam has a type. He knows _he's_ Adam's type, but it can't be _that_ fucking easy – can it?

Go, he thinks, hauling himself up out of the chair and heading into the kitchen, intending to say goodbye, that he'll see Adam later, or something. Adam's leaning against the counter, facing into the kitchen, nodding and listening to whatever words of wisdom Kris is pouring into his ear. And it's not that Tommy doesn't like Kris – he's only met him once, but the way Adam always looks like someone just ran over his puppy after he's talked to him – Tommy sort of hates him on principal for that.

Stay, he thinks, going up to Adam without even really thinking about what he's doing.

"Well, everyone but you seems to think I should go," Adam's saying into the phone, watching as Tommy perches on a kitchen stool, watching him.

"Hang on," Adam says, putting the phone down on the counter.

"What were you going to say? When the phone rang, I mean. Why I should go."

Tommy stares at Adam for a moment, because it's fucking _obvious_. "Because. That's what we _do._ We go to each other's shows. We go to gigs at shitty venues, and watch our friends play. We help each other out. It's ... simple," Tommy says, a little surprised that Adam hasn't come to that conclusion himself.

And now Adam's giving him that look again, and _now_ it's making Tommy a little uncomfortable. He feels like he has an itch, but doesn't know where to scratch and shifts on the stool, self-conscious under Adam's scrutiny.

Adam just says, "Huh," like he really hadn't thought about it that way.

Without taking his eyes off Tommy, he picks up the phone and says, "I'll call you back, okay? No, no. I'm fine. Hmm ... oh, that was Tommy you could hear. Yeah. Talk to you later."

Adam puts the phone down on the counter and Tommy suddenly feels like he's being stalked, but that's just the way Adam walks, he tells himself, like some kind of caged wild cat – still lethal but – Tommy cuts off that line of thought before it gets out of hand. Whatever else, it's still just _Adam_ oh ... right in front of him now, bracing his arms on the bar behind Tommy's stool.

"Did you mean it? What you said the other day, at the shoot," Adam clarifies, searching Tommy's face.

"Mean what?" Tommy asks, as calmly as he can but fuck ... Adam's so _close_ and holy shit, Tommy thinks, getting a little dazed now, his _eyes_.

"About liking it rough,"Adam elaborates patiently, as though Tommy is a particularly stupid child having trouble grasping a simple equation.

"Oh. That."

Tommy shakes off his reverie as Adam shifts his weight so he can lay one hand on the back of Tommy's neck, and it's not quite a caress – it's a little too tight for that, but Tommy just leans his head back a little bit and says, "Yeah. I meant it."

Adam grins then, a little Elvis snarl quirking his top lip before – Tommy's phone buzzes in his pocket, and if it weren't for Adam's arms basically pinning him to the stool, he would have fallen off.

"Fuck. _Fuck_ ," he says before he can stop himself, because Adam will think that's about him, and it's - "My friend," he explains, squirming until he can get his phone out. "I borrowed her car, and I was supposed to pick her up – oh fuck me. Half an hour ago. I have to go."

Adam takes the phone and reads the message, his eyebrows rising. "Does she kiss her mother with that mouth?" he says, but he pulls back, letting Tommy go, who can't help feeling a little disappointed. And kind of angry at himself. He takes the phone back and says, laughing, "I give you that fucking noble speech about being there for your friends, and what do I do? I nearly bail on mine."

He's off the stool and out of the kitchen, just about out the front door, because he's got to go, and he's focusing on the next thing already, when he feels Adam's hand on his arm. "Hey, wait. Before you go ..." and before he can process it, Adam's got him pinned against the wall, and Tommy's really got nowhere to go. He knows that Adam expects him to yield – that that's what he knows, but yielding isn't really in Tommy's nature. So when Adam's mouth comes down on his – hard and hot - Tommy pushes back, winding his hands through Adam's hair and scratching at his scalp as Adam's hands slide up, the tips of his fingers pressing hard into Tommy's neck.

Adam breaks first and the look on his face is nearly enough to make Tommy forget his friend altogether, that risking her anger at being totally stranded would be worth it for this look that's fucking _burning_. Adam's eyes are blazing blue, his face is flushed and his bottom lip is puffy from where Tommy has just scraped his teeth over the delicate skin on the inside of it before nipping down on it pretty hard.

"Fuck," Adam says, low and husky. "You weren't lying."

Tommy raises his eyebrows at that, and he's about to say something when his phone buzzes again.

"I really gotta go. She's going to fucking kill me. Shit. Sorry!"

And then Tommy's gone, cursing his forgetfulness as he fumbles for the car keys because he knows he's missed an opportunity here. To get laid is at the top of Tommy's list and judging from what he had just felt pressing against his leg, it was pretty high on Adam's list as well. But. For some reason, Adam's friends, and Tommy's friends, and the fucking _band_ are all relying on Tommy to distract Adam from Kris Fucking Allen, and talk about your lousy timing ... Tommy takes a deep breath before putting the key in the ignition.

There'll be time. There will. If he's enough of a distraction. Because he knows that being Adam's type isn't enough. It wasn't enough for Drake, or he and Adam would still be together.

No. To really distract Adam from Kris, Tommy has to offer something else besides a pliant nature and give-and-take in bed. And pliant isn't really Tommy's thing, so he's got that going for him, at least. He thinks Adam needs someone he can spark off, not just someone he can lay down and make do whatever he wants. It's a pretty nascent theory, and one that Tommy hasn't had a chance to test yet, although he thinks (hopes?) that he will.

Tommy smiles to himself when he thinks of Adam's swollen lip. Well. It's a start.

But in the way the universe has of laughing at people who are trying to figure their shit out, time turns out to be the last thing any of them have for anything but what's coming up.

Drake's show comes and goes in a blur of colour and alcohol. They all drink too much and Tommy and Adam end up making out on Adam's couch, and it's all hard – bites, and scratches and grinding. It fuzzies out for Tommy after a while, and he wakes up alone on Adam's couch with a bitch of a hangover, a glass of water, two aspirin and a message on his phone:

 _sober next time, y?_

Then things really start moving. The AMAs. Talk shows. The video coming out. If Tommy thinks about all of it all at once, he gets a little dizzy.

Two months ago, he was doing tequila shots with Becca, getting up the courage to ring his father to ask for money to pay his rent, and gritting his teeth against the real-job lecture he has to endure before his father will lend him the money. And now ... he's sitting in the audience on a rehearsal day for the award show, and he realises just how far away from that old life he really is.

He's watching Lady Gaga run through a cue-to-cue for lighting, his feet propped up on the seat in front of him, and he's maybe a little too aware of Adam sitting beside him, so much heat coming from his arm that's barely-touching Tommy's that Tommy keeps looking down to make sure his own arm hasn't caught fire.

Adam's face is focused and intent as he watches the action on stage, as Gaga goes through her song, and the lighting flickers and changes while the crew works out what to do and how to do it best. He's tracking her every move, and Tommy's a little surprised that she's not looking out into the audience more, that she can't feel the laser-scrutiny of Adam's gaze as he just watches.

His focus is broken, however, when Kris comes into view, the row below them, standing in front of Adam, clearly wanting to say hi. Tommy frowns in the dark theatre, because he'd forgotten that the presenters had to be here for the cue-to-cue as well, even though they'd both just said hi to Orianthi a little while ago. Tommy shakes his head and silently curses himself for going off on so many fucking tangents. He needs to keep his head in the game.

Glancing from Adam to Kris, he wonders, suddenly _which_ game.

"Sit down," Adam says, without taking his eyes off the stage. "I'm watching here."

"Oh, right. Sorry," Kris says, turning to the stage like he's just realised who's on there. Tommy watches, slightly amused, as Kris collapses into the seat in front of Adam, who shifts his long frame, taking his feet off the back of the chair and resettling, propping one foot on the opposite knee, moving it up and down in time to the music.

Tommy shifts in his seat slightly, finding the bass line of the song easily and tapping out the chord on his leg. It's turning out to be a long rehearsal day, and he's getting tired of just sitting. But. They're closing the show. _Closing the show_ he thinks, glancing at Adam, who's looking back at him, and smiling, like he's thinking the exact same thing Tommy is.

Adam stares at him for a beat too long, but then Gaga is finished and the moment, or whatever it is, is broken when Kris stands up again, turns around, and taps Adam on the leg. "Hey," he says, his voice amused. For a moment – a very brief moment – Tommy really, really hates Kris.

But Kris isn't really trying to do anything here except catch up with his friend, so Tommy bites back on the bad feelings that want to come out in completely unnecessary, bitchy words.

"Hey," Adam says back, moving his legs again and leaning forward a little bit. "How's it going?"

Tommy watches Adam's face as it softens into the same expression as when he's talking to Kris on the phone and has the sudden urge to sit on his hands so he doesn't poke Adam in the ribs really, really hard.

He tunes out whatever Kris is talking about – his wife, Tommy thinks, which would be kind of cruel if Kris had any idea how Adam really felt about him, but studying Kris's face, Tommy's pretty sure he doesn't.

Kris looks relaxed and friendly as they talk, while Adam ... Adam looks _young_ , Tommy realises. Like he just got off the bus to make it in Hollywood, or something; the lines of his face are soft and he looks like he could light up the fucking room.

Tommy pinches the bridge of his nose against the headache that's threatening and he wonders if it's worth it to even try and – "What?" he asks, tuning back in when he realises Adam's said his name.

"Sorry. I wasn't listening," he says, glancing at the stage, where there's some kind of lighting dispute going on. The day just got even fucking longer.

"I was just saying, you were the one who talked me into going to Drake's show."

"Oh, right. That," Tommy says, pushing his hand through his hair where it's itching at his eye.

Kris raises his eyebrows and says, "Bad night?" looking back at Adam, concerned. Adam shoots a look at Tommy, his face suddenly an icy mask but Tommy just rolls his eyes and says, "No. Actually it was a pretty good night. Good show. We just got a little wasted. You know how it goes," he says, smiling blandly, and tapping out another rhythm on his leg.

Kris looks from Tommy to Adam, clearly not understanding the shift in tension, and Tommy has no intention of helping him out. He's been sympathetic to Adam's crush, and willing to help out – willing, apparently to go further than he thought he would with Adam – but when did he get fucking territorial?

He shakes that off as Adam says, apparently, the first thing that comes into his head to break the tension: "What are you playing now? What Gaga was just rehearsing?"

And it's an accident, but Tommy times it fucking perfectly as Adam picks up his water bottle and takes a drink.

It's Gaga but ... "No," Tommy says, swinging up out of his chair, intent on finding the rest of the band. "Poker Face."

Adam has to turn his head so he doesn't spit water all over Kris, but he's laughing, and Tommy looks back over his shoulder as Adam says, "I'll catch you later – after the show maybe?" to Kris, before he follows Tommy backstage, where they find the rest of the band in one of the dressing rooms, and Adam has to explain why his t-shirt is wet, and why Tommy's laughing so hard.

 

And then. It's showtime.

Tommy's in a crowded, chaotic dressing room, letting the muted noise distract him from his fucking nerves. Monte looms up behind him, looking like he's about to step out of his house for a walk, and not like he's about to take to the stage, but of course, Monte's seen it all – he lays a cool hand on the back of Tommy's neck and says, "You okay, kid?" Because Tommy's the rookie here, moreso than Adam even, who had at least had the Idol tour to hone his skills a bit.

Most of Tommy's experience has come from playing friend's garages and the kind of seedy clubs that are conjured in parents' worst imaginings when their babies decide what they really want to do is make it in Hollywood.

Tommy takes a deep breath and says, "Yeah. I'm fine. I just wish I could find whoever stole the remote control to my life and get them to hit pause for a minute, you know?"

Monte just laughs at that and says, "Come on. We're up."

Right. Stage. Keyboard. Tommy feels a little off-centre without his bass, but there had been discussion about the sound, or some bullshit, and yeah, he'd told Adam, he could play. So he'd spent a lot of the past week or so learning the song on the keys, and finding that he and Lisa could kind of play off against each other pretty well, so that worked.

He's not sure about the piano part at the beginning of the song, it throws Tommy off a little bit, but once he starts playing, and he can still find the bass line, he's fine. He's enjoying himself, even though the sound in the Nokia really is pretty shitty. He's played in garages with better acoustics than this.

Tommy watches Adam when he can, stealing glances as he stalks around the stage, like performing at the AMAs is something he does every day, even though he really is the new kid on the block.

Until he falls on his ass. But with the roll, it almost looks like part of the show, and Adam keeps singing, because that's what you do. The show must go on might be a cliche by now, but it's true.

Tommy keeps playing, singing the song in his head as Adam basically stalks him, and that's part of the choreography – he's supposed to yank on Tommy's hair, and then move on, but something wild rises up in Tommy at that moment and he flashes Adam a heartbeat look, which is part _go for it_ and part _I dare you_ and before he can process anything else, Adam's mouth is on his, hard and demanding, in front of the whole theatre and 14 million people watching from their cosy living rooms.

Tommy catches his breath as Adam moves on, picking up the song again, and laughter bubbles under Tommy's skin as he keeps playing, keeps playing because that's what you do, no matter what. You keep playing.

Backstage after the show is – if anything – crazier than before with people everywhere. He registers Adam, talking to his parents, and then they're gone, and his handler is dragging him away for interviews, and she's got this set, scary look on her face, so Tommy figures Adam's in for a what were you _thinking_ speech as well.

Adam looks back once, flashing a broad, bright grin to let Tommy know that fuck, no, he's not _sorry_ and then Tommy is laughing again. He makes his way back to the dressing room, and picks up his phone, firing off a speedy tweet, his fingers sliding over the screen, and he's got to be fast, so sends out the first thing that comes to him, which is what he's thinking, and a quote from Velvet Goldmine: "Thanks SOO much to everyone that watched!!!! "Rock n Roll is a prostitute...it should be tartted up ";-)"

He squints a little at the screen, and yeah, it's gone through, and he kind of wants to check his @replies, but holyfuck time is _moving_ and he's got to get changed. He's aware of movement around and behind him as he struggles out of his stage costume and – with more than a little relief – into jeans, boots and as many layers as he thinks will be comfortable on the plane.

Because it's not quite cold in LA, but it's going to be fucking freezing in New York. He picks up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder before fighting his way to the backstage corridor. He sees Monte and Lisa, and LP's right behind him. They're all supposed to be riding to the airport together, with Adam meeting them there a little later, after he's done with whatever interviews he can squeeze in.

"Hey," Lisa says, ruffling a hand through Tommy's hair, which he fucking _hates_ but lets Lisa do it anyway. "You ready to go?" she asks and Tommy hitches his bag again, about to say yeah, he's ready, when he catches a flash of something silvery under the fluorescent lights, and sees Adam go into his dressing room.

"You know what – I'm gonna wait. I'll catch a ride with Adam. I'll see you guys at the airport," Tommy says, sidling past Lisa and down the corridor as fast as he can to deflect questions. He glances back once, but they're already moving towards the exit. Lisa looks back and mouths, _go for it_ to him before they step out the door.

Tommy thinks for a second of the kind of trouble he could get into with someone like Lisa in New York, and doesn't know whether he's relieved or disappointed that there won't be time.

He slips into Adam's room and leans back against the wall, dropping his bag on the floor.

Adam's concentrating on the mirror, taking off his stage makeup, and Tommy just watches for a minute, not saying anything. He notes the expression in Adam's eyes, though, that are cold and blue. He's pissed with himself. It's not the performance, as such, Tommy's pretty sure. "How'd the interviews go?" he asks and the thin skin around Adam's eyes tightens a little bit.

"Nice little preview for the questions I'm probably going to be answering at every fucking interview for the next month," he says, dropping makeup wipes into the wastebasket as he goes, carefully and methodically removing everything until his face is bare.

"Help me with this jacket, okay? I don't want to poke myself in the eye."

"Sure," Tommy says, pushing himself off the wall and carefully sliding it down Adam's arms, finding the special hanger or whateverthefuck and hanging it on the door.

"I thought you'd be gone," Adam says then, unbuttoning the waistcoat and loosening the tie.

Tommy just shrugs, and clears a space on the counter before hitching himself up and leaning against the mirror. "Thought I'd ride with you," he says, and Tommy always forgets that for a fairly big guy, Adam can move fucking fast, because before he can process it or react, Adam's right in front of him, his hands on Tommy's skin under the layers he's got on to protect himself against the cold they're going into in New York, and his mouth is on Tommy's again, only this time no one's watching and Adam's pushing, and insistent, his tongue feeling hard in Tommy's mouth somehow.

Tommy does what he always does with Adam: he pushes back as hard as he can. He wraps his legs around Adam's hips and pulls himself forward, pushing his hands under Adam's shirt and scratching along the small of his back. He can feel Adam's erection, pushing against his hip and Tommy thinks hazily that he's probably going to have a bruise there tomorrow, but fuck, if they had _time_ and he's so fucking hard right now and -

"Uh," comes from behind Adam, and Tommy bites his " _fuck_ " down on Adam's bottom lip and pulls back, glancing over Adam's shoulder.

"Hey Kris," he says, eyebrows rising when he sees who's standing there. Adam's eyes flare for a second as Tommy unlocks his legs, causing Adam to stumble slightly.

Kris is still standing there, his whole face red. "Sorry, I – I'll come back," he says stupidly and Tommy's all for that plan, but – "No need. We gotta go soon anyway. I'll go tell the driver you'll be out soon, okay?" he says to Adam who's ducked behind the screen in the corner of the room to get changed. He sticks his head over the top as Tommy jumps down off the counter, wincing a little as his still-hard dick rubs against his fly.

"Sure. Tell him to give me 10, okay. We'll still make the plane then, right?"

"Yeah," Tommy says, picking up his bag. "We'll still make it."

Adam nods, and Tommy walks out the door, but he has no intention of going anywhere. He quietly leans against the wall in the now-empty hallway, and shamelessly eavesdrops.

"I'm sorry," Kris says again to Adam. "I didn't realise I'd be, uh, interrupting anything."

"Clearly," Adam says, his voice a little muffled at first, but clearer when he obviously sticks his head over the top of the screen. "Since you're here, make yourself useful and pass me those black jeans. Thanks. Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see if you were okay. After ... what happened."

Tommy rolls his eyes at that. Nothing fucking ... "Nothing fucking _happened_ Kris," Tommy hears, and jumps guiltily as Adam echoes his thoughts. "I did my number, I got a little carried away – and end of story."

"So – you think it went okay?" Tommy hears Adam sighing at Kris's question and the dull sound of his boots on the floor as he comes out from behind the screen, and Tommy prepares to flee.

"I think it went fine. I'd really rather not have this conversation with you, okay? I'm going to be answering enough of these fucking questions as it is."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I only came back here because Katy made me. I should go. She's waiting in the car for me."

"You're not going to ask about Tommy?" Adam asks, his voice amused, and Tommy's kind of wondering the same thing. Kris has to at least be curious, but at least Adam doesn't sound wistful or regretful, which is what Tommy might have expected.

"I, um, no. I wasn't. It's. You know. None of my business," Kris says, and Tommy swears he can hear him blushing, which is funny, and he's really got to go, but hangs around for a second longer, to hear what Adam says in reply to that.

"I guess it's not," Adam says quietly, and Tommy wants to go back in there and just – he pinches his arm to stop himself from doing just that.

"Is it – what is it?" Kris asks, curious. "I mean, is it something serious, or a rebound thing, or what?"

"I don't know. It's. Something. Where it's going, I have no idea. But you know – I like him. He pushes me, and he mocks me, and drives me fucking _nuts_ , but. Yeah. It's something. Can we leave it at that?"

Tommy silently agrees as he flees as quietly as he can down the hallway, letting himself out back exit where a bored-looking driver is standing by a black town car.

"Sorry," Tommy says as the driver opens the back door, which Tommy finds awkward. He shrugs it off though and climbs in the back – just in time because suddenly Adam's right there again and holy fuck, how does he _do_ that? Tommy just leans back against the seat, arching his head up as Adam nips at the line of his neck.

"You know what'd be nice?" Tommy says lazily, feathering his fingers through Adam's hair. Adam's words to Kris are going through his mind, but he manages to push them back. Whatever this is – or is turning into more like – is a little fragile for analysis right now.

"What?" Adam asks against Tommy's pulse, that's pounding so fast in Tommy's ears he can't find the rhythm of it any more.

"It'd be nice if we could stop for a little bit longer than fucking – fucking high school makeout sessions that don't get us anywhere."

Adam curls a smile against Tommy's neck before flicking at his earlobe with his tongue and moving way too slowly along Tommy's jawline to his mouth, finally, as night-dark LA speeds past them outside the window of the car, and thank God for the divider that slides shut between them and the driver.

Tommy tangles his hands in Adam's hair, and it may be the first time in his life that Tommy's kind of grateful for being a little bit short, because he can straddle Adam easily and he just - _pushes_.

"Fuck. Oh ... fuck," Adam rumbles as Tommy rocks his hips forward, Adam's hands feeling big and warm as they cup his ass. "Jesus, Tommy, you're going to make me come in my pants, you little -"

"Too much talking," Tommy mutters, kissing Adam hard, and open-mouthed and dirty. He slips his hand down between them and palms Adam's dick through his jeans and it's really fucking awkward, with the layers of clothes, and maybe bullshit that they have between them right now but Tommy's on a fucking _mission_ and he has no intention of playing fair.

His upper body is flush against Adam's, and he's working his hand – wedged tight between them – pushing and fucking pushing, and he knows he's got Adam when he tips his head back against the seat, his hands curled tight around Tommy's ass still, and Tommy can feel the sticky spread on the front of Adam's jeans. And all Tommy needs to do is rest his forehead against Adam's, looking him in the eye and all he needs, all he needs is a ... little ... friction, and, "Yeah, y-yes," he's done.

Tommy's thighs are aching now, and he's really uncomfortable, but he doesn't want to move.

Adam moves his head, pushing at Tommy's neck, and Tommy arches his head again, biting down hard on his bottom lip as Adam sucks out a red mark that is going to be a spectacular bruise on Tommy's thin, pale skin.

"First chance I get," Adam says after he's soothed the mark with his tongue, "I'm fucking you _speechless_."

Tommy turns his head and looks out the window as the car slows down. "We're at the airport," he says, awkwardly climbing off Adam's lap and stretching his legs as best he can in the small space.

"New York, here we come," Adam says, fishing in his bag for his sunglasses and adjusting his clothes.

Tommy's laughing so hard at that he nearly falls when he gets out of the car, catching himself on the door as the driver reaches in and hands him his bag.

"Come on," Adam says, striding ahead. "We've got shows to do."

Time.

There's no fucking _time_. Everything seems to happen simultaneously, too-fast and slow all at once, like they've been travelling forever, but when he looks back, he can't believe how far they've come.

Tommy feels like he's running a marathon that's taking place in front of the entire world as he finds himself drawn further into Adam's orbit, which means holyshit he's _famous_. And it's sudden. It's like being hit with cold water – shocking and strange and unexpected.

They land in New York, tired and travel-weary. They're all sharing an elevator and listing slightly with exhaustion, waiting for it to reach their floor.

Tommy's leaning against the back wall, Adam beside him, just managing to hold himself upright. Tommy wonders idly what would happen if Adam happened to collapse sideways. He smirks to himself a little at the image of Adam falling on top of him like a tired house of cards collapsing.

Fuck. He's not making any sense. He rubs at his eyes as the elevator dings to a halt and the doors hush open. Good nights are muttered and they all scatter to their separate rooms.

At least, Tommy's trying to go to his room because bed is right at the top of his things to fall into list right now. But Adam's got his hand on Tommy's arm, his fingers tight around Tommy's bicep.

"C'mon," he mumbles, tired enough to be nearly inarticulate. "My room."

Tommy kind of has to go with Adam – he's got several inches of height on Tommy, so it's either be dragged by his arm, or stumble along with, and Tommy thinks there's some kind of weird metaphor in there, but his brain's so fuzzed he's surprised it knows the word 'metaphor.'

Adam doesn't stop moving until he's in the room and he's locked the door behind them. Tommy leans against it, and fights the urge to slide straight down to the floor.

"What the fuck, Adam? What was that?"

Adam scrubs at his eyes and sighs. "Sorry. I just. I'm kind of – I need – I need to _sleep_!"

"You need to sleep so you drag me into your room? What'm I missing?" Tommy asks, frustrated and exhausted, and he fell asleep on the fucking plane before it had even left the ground, so he's still in the same jeans he was wearing before, and they're fucking uncomfortable, rubbing and chafing against his upper thigh. Adam had somehow been co-ordinated enough to change in the plane's bathroom, the fucker. Tommy's staring at him and wanting to just. _Sleep_.

"I'm – I'm in my head, you know? About you, and Kris and the fucking show, and everything and if I'm alone, I won't sleep. I'll call Kris, or Neil and it's late, and -"

"I get it," Tommy says quietly, and he does. He's not that way himself – he could sleep through the apocalypse – but he knows people like that. Who barrel through life going at breakneck speed, and when something happens – like the AMAs for Adam – that maybe put the brakes on a little, they start second-guessing themselves and letting doubt in.

"I get it," he says again, "but I need to clean up, okay? I'm gonna -" Tommy yawns, wide enough to feel his jaw crack – "Gonna take a shower. Think you can stand your own thoughts for five minutes?"

Adam flops on to the bed and says, "I'm sure I can handle it. Just be thankful I'm fucking exhausted, or I'd join you."

Tommy just laughs at that and he realises as he shuts the door that this is the most intimate setting they've been in. Well, now, he thinks as he strips off his clothes and winces as he peels his jeans away from his skin - and _why_ had that seemed like such a good idea? - that's weird.

He's too tired to process it, so settles for pounding the thought out of his brain with the shower and holy shit the water pressure! His shower, in his shitty apartment – and fuck, he can afford to move now – pisses water out like an old man with a swollen prostate.

Tommy tilts his head back and revels in the water for a moment, blinking it out of his eyes as he turns the taps off.

As good as it feels, the last thing he needs to do is fall asleep in here, and he's tired enough that it could happen easily. He grabs a towel, and roots around in his bag for an old pair of sweatpants and long-sleeved t-shirt that used to be black and has a faded, impossible to read logo on it.

Dry and dressed again he feels a little more human, and a little more able to deal with whatever Adam's mood is right now.

Tommy's more than a little relieved to find that Adam's fallen asleep on the bed, his long limbs sprawling out and his chest rising and falling slowly. Tommy watches for a second, then sighs and crawls on to the bed beside Adam, pushing at one of his arms until he rolls on to his side, muttering something in his sleep.

Tommy crawls under the covers and studies the knobs of Adam's spine, pressing against his shirt. He has a sudden urge to run his hand down the line of it, but thinks better of it. They've done teasing, and almost-fucking, and making out, but this – this is something else.

Sighing, Tommy turns on his side, his back to Adam and closes his eyes.

He wakes up to the sound of someone knocking on the door, and with Adam somehow draped all over him, and how the fuck did that happen? Tommy jabs Adam in the stomach with a sharp elbow. "Get the fuck off me," he mutters as Adam rolls on to his back and opens his eyes, rubbing the sleep out of them.

The knocking is louder, and Tommy half-expects the door to come of its hinges.

"You got company," he says to Adam, burrowing back under the covers and chasing the warmth.

"Not me, asshole," Tommy says, when Adam rolls over again, settling his chest against Tommy's back. "Someone's trying to break down your door."

"Ah, fuck," Adam mutters into the back of Tommy's neck, which kind of tickles, and makes Tommy push at Adam again with his elbow.

"Alright, alright. Jesus, why'd you let me sleep in my clothes?" Adam asks as he rolls off the bed and goes to answer the door.

"You fell asleep before I got out of the shower," Tommy says as Adam lets his publicist in, who looks way too awake and way too pissed for so early in the morning.

"You," she says, pointing at Tommy. "Go to your own room and make the bed look slept in. Go. Go. Go."

"Morning," Tommy mutters, climbing out of the bed and searching the floor for his shoes.

"Uh ... what's going on?" Adam asks as Laura sits on the couch, flicking a glance from her phone back to Adam.

"Plenty, but we'll worry about that later. There is going to be a lot of shit this week, Adam. Even I don't know how much. So – for now – your pretty little bassist there -"

Tommy looks up from pulling his boots on, staring. But Laura could stare down Obama if she saw fit, so Tommy just goes back to his shoes. "- is straight. There's going to be enough fallout without dealing with bullshit gossip as well, okay? If nothing else, do it for me."

"By which you mean 'you're going to do it for me'," Adam says easily, leaning against the wall by the bathroom.

"Hey, do I get a say in this?" Tommy asks, standing up and picking up his bag.

"You? No. Not so much. Just. Do what you've been doing, and pretend you're not fucking Adam, okay? Just until this bullshit dies down."

"I'm not -" Tommy starts but Laura just waves a hand in the air. "Right now, I don't want to know. I don't need to know. Just go and roll on your bed for a bit, okay? Then we're off to Letterman. Go!"

Tommy glances at Adam who just shrugs and quirks an eyebrow at him. Tommy narrow his eyes and flips Adam the bird, before finding himself heading down the corridor, checking his room key for the number. He crashes right into Lisa, and they go down in a heap.

"Shit! Sorry! You okay?" Tommy asks, as they untangle themselves and stand up.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"Fell asleep in Adam's room last night and Laura's hustled me out to mess up my own bed. Dunno. I guess maybe she thinks the maids'll gossip or something?"

Lisa cocks her head and stares at him for a moment. "Because that's not going to happen anyway? C'mon. I'll help you." And before he can react, Tommy finds himself being dragged down the hotel corridor. Again.

They pass Monte and LP, who shouts out "You coming to Adam's room for breakfast or not?"

Lisa whirls around, her hand tight on Tommy's wrist. "Yeah. We'll be there in a few, okay? Order coffee. Lots of coffee!"

Monte laughs, and then they're off, and why the fuck is this corridor so long? Tommy glances down at his key in his free hand, then at one of the doors they're whizzing past. "Wait. Wait! We've gone too far," he says, feeling his bag over his shoulder bump into his hip as they stop abruptly. "It's three doors back that way," Tommy says, jerking his head back.

"Right. Sorry," Lisa says, breathless.

They backtrack and Tommy opens the door to his hotel room, feeling an insane urge to whisper, it's so fucking quiet in there.

Lisa heads straight for the bed, and makes some kind of weird ... sheet-angel on top of it, like she's out in the snow, or something.

Tommy laughs and says, "Yeah, that'll work," dropping his bag on the floor.

She sits up, alert suddenly, and says, "What's that?" pointing at his neck.

Tommy's hand goes automatically to the bruise on his neck. "Ah, fuck. I forgot that was there. Shit."

He goes into the bathroom and waits while the lights flicker on, studying his face in the mirror. He stares at the bruise for a moment, and grins when he remembers the night before. Whatever else happens, it sure had been _fun_. But. Yeah. It's kind of obvious. Maybe if he weren't so fucking pale ...

Sighing, he sticks his head out the bathroom door. "I'm gonna take a shower. Get dressed."

"What are you going to do about that?" Lisa asks, pointing at his neck. Tommy shrugs. He doesn't care, but Laura's going to pitch a fit when she sees it. "Makeup, I guess. Borrow Adam's scarf till then."

Lisa rolls off the bed, and yanks the covers back, making an even bigger mess. "I'll let the others know you won't be long," she says, blowing him a kiss before leaving.

Tommy strips fast, and turns the water on, lingering a little bit longer this time – long enough to wash his hair, anyway, before getting out, getting dressed, and heading back to Adam's room, and everything's in such a fucking _rush!_.

He has time, back in Adam's room, to steal the scarf, winding it around his neck, before diving into the room service breakfast, snagging toast and coffee, sitting cross-legged on the bed, and half-listening when LP says to Adam, "Dude. Half a bagel and black coffee isn't breakfast. Eat!"

Adam grumbles, but picks up the other half of the bagel he's really just been picking at, and sits down on the bed beside Tommy, raising his eyebrows at the scarf.

"Improvising," Tommy shrugs, mumbling around a mouthful of toast.

"Huh," Adam says, but when Tommy looks up he's smiling around his coffee.

Tommy closes his eyes in the back of the car a little while later, on the way to film Letterman. Fucking _Letterman_. He grins when he hears Adam slide across the back seat, and feels him tug on the scarf.

"You should ask before you borrow people's clothes," he says, right in Tommy's ear, his voice deliberately pitched low. Tommy opens his eyes and looks sideways at Adam from under his lashes. "Shouldn't have bitten me," he answers lazily.

"No," Adam says, sliding one hand up the inside of Tommy's leg. "I just shouldn't have bitten you on the _neck_."

And Tommy's going to say something, or maybe get Adam to move his hand – off or up he's not sure, but – "We're here," the driver says suddenly, pulling up at the back door of the studio. Adam slides back across the seat, but gives Tommy a 'we're not done here' look before turning and getting out of the car.

Tommy smirks a little at Adam's back as he follows him, and he can't help getting a kick out of the show: performing live on Letterman. They're all on a bit of a high after, bundling into the cars to go back to the hotel, and Tommy's more than a little shocked when Laura climbs into Adam's car right behind him and settles herself between them.

"Laura, what the fuck are you doing?" Adam asks as the car pulls away from the kerb.

"Chaperoning," she says briskly. "Your driver told me about your cosy little encounter, and the last thing I need is for this shit to leak out. So. From now on you -" she turns to Tommy – "Will ride with the rest of the band, and you -" to Adam "- will learn to like it. I don't care what you do in rooms that have doors that lock as long as _no one else knows_ , but otherwise ..."

"Straight," Tommy says, staring out the window at the city. "I get it."

"Smart boy," Laura says, although she's about three years younger than Tommy.

"Jesus," Adam says tiredly, leaning his head back against the seat.

Laura's phone buzzes as they pull up to the hotel, and suddenly she's swearing and pushing Adam out of the car. "Go. Go. Get the others. Who's hotel room is closest? Monte's? Fine. All of you. Come on."

Tommy and Adam find themselves hurrying to catch up, exchanging puzzled glances as Laura follows Monte and the others to his hotel room.

"Okay," Laura says, looking down at her phone as everyone settles: LP sprawls in the only armchair, and Monte lays down on the couch, while Lisa collapses back on the bed, Tommy following her lead. Any time he can be lying down at this point is fine by him. He's so fucking _tired_. He flicks a glance at Adam, who's standing by the window, bracing his hands on the window sill behind him.

"Okay," Laura says again. "Here's the thing. You're off Good Morning America. They cancelled your appearance – wait, there's more. You're off Dick Clark, too. And I had some press cancel today as well."

Tommy sits up on the bed, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, watching Adam's reaction, but he's staring out the window, his grip tight on the windowsill. Lisa's sitting bolt upright, shock warring with outrage on her face and he's aware of Monte pinching the bridge of his nose and LP shaking his head in his peripheral vision.

"That's _bullshit_ ," Tommy says, breaking the shocked silence.

"I'm -" Adam starts to say, but Lisa interrupts. "Don't you fucking dare. If you're going to say sorry to us, don't you _dare!_ You didn't do anything wrong, and it's not your fault people are getting freaked out."

She gets off the bed and wraps her arms around him, saying, "Whatever you do, or say, we're behind you. But no fucking sorrys, okay?"

Adam laughs at that as he returns the hug and says, "Okay. Sure. I can do that."

"Right. Now that's out of the way," Laura says briskly, overriding the assents from the others, "You are on the Early Show tomorrow. Same song-set. New Year's we'll figure out later. You got nothing for the rest of the day, so maybe get some sleep. And by sleep, I mean _sleep_ Adam," Laura says, eyeing Tommy, who just raises his eyebrows at her.

"Sleep," Adam says as Lisa lets go and settles on the bed by Tommy again. "Sounds good. See you guys later?" he asks, pushing himself wearily from the windowsill.

There's a murmured assent as Lisa picks up the room service menu and reaches for the phone. Tommy shifts on the bed and wonders for a moment if he should go after Adam, but fuck, he's tired, too. And he's pretty sure he's coming down with a cold, or something, he can feel it in the back of his throat.

He stretches out on the bed instead, closing his eyes. Lisa nudges his leg with her foot and says, "Want anything?"

"Uh. Dunno. Sleep," Tommy mutters, vaguely, drifting off to the sound of the others laughing. But Lisa does wake him up a little while later, and yeah, Tommy's fucking hungry now – starving. He wolfs down a cheeseburger – fucking good burger too – and settles in for some band-bonding time (LP's words) as they play Hold 'em for nickles and dimes and exchange horror stories about the road.

Lisa wins the most in the end, and Tommy finds himself _owing_ her money. "Don't worry," she says cheerfully, "I'll collect later. And if not ... well ... don't go near any horses, okay?"

Tommy laughs, and finds himself relaxing for the first time since they heard about the cancellations.

"I'm going to go check on Adam. Get some sleep," Tommy says, making his way to the door.

"Uh, huh," LP says, not opening his eyes. "I never heard it called _sleep_ before, Tommy Joe."

"Fuck you," Tommy says amiably, followed out of the room by whistles and catcalls.

He's relieved, to be honest, that the others aren't weird, or put out by ... whatever the fuck this is, he thinks, before knocking on Adam's door. "It's me," he calls out. "It's Tommy. You awake?"

Adam opens the door, wearing black sleep pants and a ragged black t-shirt. "Yeah. Come to check on me?"

Tommy half-shrugs and collapses on Adam's bed, unlacing his boots and kicking them off. "Maybe. Maybe I'm here to take you up on your invitation."

"My invitation? What invitation?" Adam asks, lying beside Tommy on the bed, turning on his side to face him.

"To fuck me speechless" Tommy says, mimicking Adam's pose, but frowning at the look on his face. "Or has something changed in the past few hours? You don't want to? Too tired? You look kind of beat." And he does. His liner is smudged into the circles under his eyes, and his face looks pale and weary.

Tommy reaches out and rubs his thumb along Adam's cheekbone, his skin feels rough and a little dry under Tommy's hand. Adam scrubs at his eyes, smudging his liner even more, rolling on to his back, putting his arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling. "I'm fine. And it's not that I don't want to. It's just - I don't think we should. It's not – it's not a good idea right now," Adam says without looking at Tommy. "I don't know what this is, and I'm not _ready_ for anything, really, and I was talking to Kris about it, and it's not fair on you ..." he trails off when Tommy kicks him in the leg.

"Been talking to your little friend about me?" Tommy's pissed. Because fuck – "Adam. Look at me," he says, sitting up and crossing his legs on the bed. Slowly Adam turns on to his side again.

Tommy pushes his hand through his hair, frustrated and annoyed. He takes a deep breath and bites back all of the angry words that want to spill out. "Because," he says a little softer, "Whatever _this_ is – it's between you and me. It's got nothing to do with your little Idol buddy."

"He's not -"

Tommy holds up his hand, stopping Adam from saying whatever was going to come next.

"You can't – you can't hold everyone at bay, waiting for Kris, Adam. That's not fair. On you, or him.

"Or me." Tommy digs his knuckles into his eyes, suddenly so fucking tired he can't think clearly.

"I'm gonna go back to my room. Get some sleep. Just – let me know when your head clears, okay?"

Tommy swings his legs over the edge of the bed, pulling his boots on without looking back.

"Tommy ... you don't have to -"

"Yeah, I think I do," Tommy says, standing and turning back to the bed, his arms folded.

"Look – this ... ride is crazy insane, right? For all of us. I figured ..." Tommy shrugs, as his reasons for starting to flirt with Adam in the first place seem thin in the face of Adam's apparent resistance. "I don't know. I guess I figured we could just – help each other out? Give ourselves an anchor. I don't even know any more. But if all you're gonna give me is back-and-forth bullshit ... I don't need that. _You_ don't need that. Figure out what you really want, Adam. When _you_ know – let me in on it, okay?

"I'll see you in the morning." Tommy's out the door and down the hallway to his own room before Adam can say anything.

The next few weeks are ... awkward. They get over the worst of it pretty quickly, mostly because they have to in order to work together, but there's a tension that hums under Tommy's skin like a melody gone wrong.

They have performances and appearances to get through, and Tommy takes his cue from Monte; showing up; doing his job – and getting the fuck out of Dodge before Adam can catch him.

He's done what he can, he thinks, fuck 'em. Adam's a grown-up. Let him work his own way out of his stupid crush.

Tommy's resolution lasts pretty well. At least until Adam shows up on his doorstep.

"Uh ... okay. Come in." He's shocked to see Adam in his space – all of their previous interactions – personal and otherwise – have been on Adam's turf, and it adds to Tommy's unsettled feelings to see Adam – larger than life as always – standing in the middle of Tommy's tiny, messy apartment.

Adam looks around before shoving a stack of magazines off the end of the sofa, and sitting down, kicking his long legs out in front of him. Tommy moves then; shoving stuff off the coffee table before settling cross-legged in front of Adam.

Now that he's here; right in front of Tommy and in his space, Tommy doesn't know what to say. He sits on his perch as the silence stretches out, and he waits.

"So – I think I owe you an apology. And apparently you've been avoiding me, so ... here I am."

Adam spreads out his arms, before rubbing his hands on his thighs and for the first time, Tommy realises that Adam's _nervous_.

"An apology," he repeats. "Okay. For what?" He knows exactly what, but he needs to hear it – needs to hear Adam _say_ it.

Adam sighs and ducks his head. "Fuck. I knew you were going to do that. I knew you weren't going to just -" he raises his head again. "I'm sorry, okay? For what happened in New York. I talked to Neil, and to Danielle, and to – well, to a lot of people who weren't you, and who weren't ... Kris. And I'm sorry. And you were right. It wasn't fair to keep jerking you around because I was ... distracted by a stupid crush I held on to for far too long. Even though I _know_ what you and my friends talked about – and that you were basically throwing yourself at me on purpose."

Tommy shrugs blithely, not embarrassed. "You're this great guy, you know? You're funny, and smart and sweet, and your friends ... they really hated seeing all of that go to waste on someone who was never ... going to _see_ you the way you wanted him to. So, yeah, I threw myself on the grenade."

Tommy half-shrugs and moves off the table, easily straddling Adam's lap. "I was doing pretty well, too for a while."

Adam slides his hands down Tommy's back; resting them in the slight curve created by Tommy arching as close to Adam as he can. Bullshit of the past few weeks aside, he's _missed_ this closeness.

"You were." Adam's voice is tight, and Tommy presses closer, when he realises that Adam's getting hard. "But - "

"Yeah, yeah. We need to talk, work it out, what-the-fuck-ever. How about this: You make good on your promise to fuck me speechless, and we can talk all you want after."

Adam doesn't answer at first; just runs his hands up and down Tommy's back and Jesus, Tommy's so hard now that he can't think and _someone_ had better be getting lucky – Adam slides his hands up to the back of Tommy's neck and pulls him even closer, so there's no space between them at all, and their mouths are nearly touching.

Adam's breath is coming faster and Tommy feels the atmosphere around them shift; the ice of the past few weeks melting away, even as it seems to get hotter, right before Adam's mouth is on Tommy's; hard and almost punishing, but like always, Tommy just gives back as good as he gets.


End file.
